


Kun Iiz Fahliil

by Amethyst97Skye



Series: Second Star [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Prisoner of War, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: Someone murdered Divine Justinia. Someone destroyed the Conclave. Someone torn the sky asunder. There was only one survivor.Update: This work has been discontinued. Please look to my next attempt to write a Dragonborn Inquisitor under the name 'Neh Viir Vul Toor'.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Drem yol lok. Peace fire sky. I give you Aster's opposite in every way.
> 
> Aster is the protagonist of 'Vul Yol Fahliil'. It does not need to be read to understand this.

It is not well known that the village of Haven is in possession of two Chantries. They are referred to, among those in the know, as the Eyes of Andraste. The lake that separates them froze in the winter of 9:30 Dragon, and remains frozen to this day, the 27th of Wintermarch, 9:41 Dragon.

The first Chantry, the Right Eye of Andraste, was visited by the Hero of Ferelden during the Fifth Blight, and is defined by its access to the Temple of Scared Ashes, the Prophet’s Crown.

The second Chantry, the Left Eye, has since become the headquarters of what little remains of the Divine’s forces that accompanied her to the Conclave. Beneath lies the heart of the Maker’s Bride, a dungeon none have set foot in for centuries.

...Until now.


	2. The Heart of Andraste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look inside yourself. What do you see? Shackles, chains and bloodstains. 
> 
> Actions speak louder than words, Cassandra.

Her stiff, slow, coordinated gait was at odds with how she opened the door. The iron hinges groaned in protest; the damp, rotting wood scraped against the cold, concrete floor, and the rusted handle cracked the stone wall behind it, a cloud of dust, dirt and decades of debris rising and falling in the wake of her anger and haste.

Without her titles, Cassandra Pentaghast did not introduce herself to her prisoner. They sat in the centre of the room, kneeling, head tilted to the ceiling with theirs arms splayed out to their sides, as if in prayer. Their armour was of the finest quality, the polished obsidian lined with silverite and bloodstone in a labyrinthian-like network of twists and turns. It was, without a doubt, the work of a master smith, inspired, it seemed, by the primitive – but no less terrifying – armour that the accursed Darkspawn wore.

Four men, four soldiers, armoured in solid silverite - their chest plates embossed with a flaming sword - surrounded them, visors locked and longswords drawn. Their glowing shine was sucked from Cassandra’s sight, and the torchlight – lit by smokeless magefire, did not penetrate the darkness that veiled the prisoner’s face. All they could see was the flickering green spasms of magic contained, Cassandra theorised, in a single eye. Their left eye.

As she paced, circling her prisoner like a pack of wolves, a second figure – a woman clad in heavy robes of an ornate, but modest, design – slipped inside the door, which she closed silently.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” Cassandra demanded. She continued as if she had not expected them to answer. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Everyone… except for _you_.”

Cassandra stepped back, subtly shifting her feet into a defensive stance, as her prison drew their hands together then bowed forward, placing their palms on the floor. It was not, she knew, a gesture of capitulation. Nor was it, she argued, an act of guilt, or remorse. Whatever they were doing, they had finished, and Cassandra was rewarded with their undivided attention.

Before she could lose her nerve, Cassandra lunged forward, grasping the uneven horns that adorned their helmet, and yanked their head up at an awkward angle. She could not see their eyes, but she could _feel_ them staring at her, into her.

“Explain this.”

As if on cue, the poisonous green magic flared, and its victim growled.

Her strength and self-determination were defeated as the prisoner, with an ease the Antivan Crows would envy, twisted free of their captor’s hold and slowly, almost mournfully, shook it in reply.

“You can’t? Or won’t,” she challenged.

“I… can… not.”

Their words were slow, sluggish, their voice low and dry, obstructed by their helmet, but Cassandra felt its power nonetheless. And it scarred her, the way their breath felt like a tangible force, sharper and stronger than any blade she had ever wielded.

“You’re lying!” she roared, lunging a second time, only to be caught within an inch of her life.

“We need them, Cassandra.”

_Leliana…_

Cassandra fought free of her friend’s hold, embarrassed beyond words. The silence was not permitted to hang.

“Do you remember what happened?” Leliana asked, stepping directly into the torchlight. “Do you remember how this began?”

The fire illuminated her face: steel blue eyes, unwavering in their intensity, stared out of a fair face framed by short, straight auburn hair. A thin, single plaited strand had slipped from behind her right ear.

“Remember…” they whispered.

Cassandra grasped the pommel of her sword to control her shaking hand, the other clenched in a fist behind Leliana’s back. She was determined not to pace, to show weakness. Not any more than she already had.

“Beginning,” they nodded, pronouncing the syllables individually, their accent and tongue heavy. “And the… end,” they continued, opening their palms to encompass the dungeon.

Cassandra knew that if she had picked up on the fact that Common was not their prisoner’s first language, it would be pointless mentioning it to Leliana. Their armour was… otherworldly, like something out of a fantasy. A nightmare. There was nothing like it in Thedas. Not to her knowledge, or Leliana's.

“But not the middle,” she sighed. “Leliana, we are getting nowhere, and we do not have time to waste. Head to the forward camp. I will take him to the Rift.”

The second it took for Leliana to nod, and vacate the dungeon, spoke volumes. This discussion was not over, but far be it for the Left Hand to be seen questioning the orders of the Right.


	3. Falling From the Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra is not the only one who has fallen from grace. How, and when, will they rise?

Binding the prisoner was symbolic. The people of Haven needed to see, to know, that she could bring an end to the chaos and restore order. Cassandra could not describe them as placid – their armour, alone, pulsed with inhuman energy – but they did not resist her attempts to restrain them. Against their armour, however, the lyrium-soaked rope looked terribly dull and devoid of life. It did not seem discomforting to them in the least.

She could not sense any trace of lyrium in their blood, and the magic she did sense stemmed from their enchanted armour. It stood to reason that her prisoner was not a mage, but, that begged the question: how did one tear a hole in the sky – in the _Veil_ – without magic?

When they emerged from the Chantry into the village proper, she showed them the Breach, the swirling spiral of clouds and flying rock circling a single spire of luminous green light. Without warning, it exploded, widening like a body bloated from the pressure of expanding gasses. The force brought the prisoner to their knees. Cassandra joined them.

“I do not know if you understand what I am saying, but I will tell you nonetheless. The Breach –” She pointed at the tear in the sky, and the prisoner’s line of sight followed her finger, “– is a rift, the largest rift, into the world of demons. Each time it expands, the mark on your… eye spreads. It will kill you. But we can change that.”

Cassandra watched them raised their left hand, inspecting the black gauntlet keenly before resting it over the left side of their face, momentarily smothering the magic it radiated.

“Un… der… stand,” they sighed. Though the syllables were steeped in exhaustion, it was not a voice of resignation but one of determination.

“Then…?”

“I help you.” These words were spoken with uncharacteristically soft sincerity.

Cassandra had no desire to argue. Before she could intercept the prisoner’s attempts to stand, they stood a head taller than her, their mismatched horns glinting, winking, in the pale, sunless sky. Squaring her shoulders, Cassandra tugged them forward and marched through the village. Eyes followed every step of their progress, faces scowling in anger, then in fear. A few brave, or foolish, souls took aim with rocks and rotten produce. If the prisoner felt the impact, they gave no sign of it.

There was no hunch to their shoulders, no curve in their spine, and their feet moved with predetermined purpose. This was not the walk of a wounded, broken man, monster or animal. They radiated power, confidence and assurance, their aura going so far as to influence those closest to their procession. Some dropped their weapons, others shifted uncomfortably, caught between wishing for the worst and hoping for a best, and a scant few even dared to smile, hope alight in their eyes.

_They believe the rumours..._

Cassandra quickened her pace when they reached the lake, her prisoner matching her stride for stride effortlessly. They passed the stables and forge in a blur, the heat and stench barely registering in Cassandra’s mind as they approached the gate that led to the valley. Alone with the dead, it was eerily quiet.

She held up a hand and, to her great surprise, the prisoner stopped.

“There will be a trial,” she warned. “I can promise no more.”

The rope dissolved when she cut it but, despite her misgivings, she sheathed her dagger and pressed onward. They jogged in silence, though the sounds of the demoralised soldiers they passed echoed endlessly. Through her miasma of own heavy breathing and pounding heart came a cry, a deep guttural sound that should have come from an animal.

Whirling round, sword half drawn, Cassandra met the sight of her prisoner, down on one knee, holding their face, their hands spasming with the intent to crush their skull. Whatever she first thought to say died on her tongue.

“The pulses are coming faster now,” she said instead, giving them the support to stand. They did not use it.

Her assessment of the near future was bleak. Strong as they seemed, her prisoner was mortal, though there were many who believed otherwise. Time was their greatest enemy.

Cassandra stopped short of crossing the bridge that spanned the frozen river. A team of scouts, five in total, were loading salvaged supplied onto a cart. Where the horse should have been harnessed stood a woman, dressed in ornately embroidered robes, wearing a cold violet hood that hid their fair face from view.

“Leliana –”

No sooner had she voiced her name did a crash of thunder shake both the earth and sky. An explosion of rock and ice threw her backwards into the sodden remains of a snow drift. When Cassandra opened her eyes, words failed her. The bridge had been destroyed, Shades were scouring through the rumble, and her prisoner had vanished.


	4. Across the River

Cassandra raced to the edge of the bridge and counted half a dozen Shades, their bodies frozen at various intervals in the throes of unspeakable agony. They ignored her in favour of the nest of victims on the opposite side of the river. As the dust cleared, Cassandra heaved a sigh of relief: poised before the opposite gate was Leliana, bow drawn and arrow knocked. A scout stood beside her, matching her stance, as two more beat back the Shades’ advances with their shields and swords, a third slashing with their daggers whenever one dared to get too close.

Quick to seize the opportunity, Cassandra dropped down onto the ice, drew her blade and unleashed a war cry worthy of the great King Calenhad. One Shade was dispatched by arrows alone, another to Cassandra’s fury and one of Leliana’s scouts beheaded a third. Rather than attack the team, the three remaining Shades made for Cassandra. The battle was brutal, bloody, but fast. A rogue armed with a pair of daggers jumped from the bridge, impaling the closest Shade, permitting the two sword-wielders to gain, and keep, the attention of a second.

An arrow lodged itself in the skull of the Shade blight-bent on killing Cassandra; she turned, ready to raise her sword in salute, but fell short. Leliana was not on the bridge. Or, if she was, Cassandra could not see her. She had eyes only for her prisoner, and the bow in their hand.

She did not sheath her sword. Two men, armed with longswords, aided a young archer in her descent through the rubble. Leliana followed swiftly, the prisoner flanking her, and they came to a stop beside the rogue. Cassandra was on them in an instant.

Her tongue stumbled and stalled when she saw Leliana refuse the proffered white bow, a glaring contrast to the prisoner’s armour. In the sickly light of the Breach, it seemed to bleed.

“Keep it,” she insisted, with careful enunciation, pressing it back against their breast plate. “Maker knows you will need it.”

For a moment, Cassandra felt as if all the eye of Thedas were trained on her. She knew why and, as she sheathed her sword, she relented. She offered little more than a nod, but the ghost of a smile she saw flitter across Leliana’s face was worth the pain.

“We should keep moving.”

“Adder will accompany us,” Leliana informed, gesturing to the rogue, who tipped her head in acknowledgement. “The others will return to Haven.”

It did not escape Cassandra that Leliana had, most likely, prearranged their formation as Adder took the lead with the prisoner. Judging from her accent, she was Ferelden. She was also an elf, and the prisoner seemed to respond favourable to her foreign words.

“What...?” Cassandra hissed, frustration eating through the venom, as they mounted the river bank, eyes trained straight ahead. “How – Why -”

Leliana just shook her head, which force Cassandra to direct her gaze elsewhere. She did not know if that meant now was an inopportune time to discuss their concerns, or if she did not know how to explain, answer or even articulate them. They proceeded through the valley without further comment. Time was, they feared, in short supply.


End file.
